A pocket note about being very bad at many things, including believing in physical reality while flying between North America and New Zealand.
I’ve been in airplanes and airports since sometime 24 or more hours ago. I am traveling to visit my sister and her family in Christchurch, New Zealand. I was supposed to land in Christchurch at 8:05 am this morning. (Which is Sunday morning in New Zealand and Saturday afternoon back home.) But there was too much fog on our descent. And so just before we were supposed to touch down, the plane tilted up quickly.
When the pilot’s voice came over the communication system,* he spent two minutes explaining everything he’d done to try to overcome the nature of a very bad fog. And then he told us we would have to return to Auckland. I related to his valiant but unsuccessful attempt to cut through a bad fog. And also his roundabout way of delivering bad news.
*I am too tired to remember the correct word for this
So I am in the Auckland airport waiting for a plane to Christchurch for the second time today. There are worse places to be stuck.
I haven’t eaten much since I started traveling. I stopped at a place called Hudson’s and ordered a slice of toasted date loaf. The woman who handed it to me pointed to a counter full of utensils and condiments,
“Many people like to eat this with butter. You will find some right over there.”
My voice caught as I thanked her. I would very much like to eat this with butter.
The day before I left, I sent out a newsletter about a project I’d been working on for months. I heard from many of you that the formatting didn’t work, the pictures didn’t load, and the embeds weren’t present. This was devastating. I angry cried while I packed for this trip. Why can’t I do anything right the first time?
We are who we are, I guess.
I am still not sure what went wrong. While I travel, I am working from an old laptop that starts whirring when I ask it to process more than a text document. So I am not going to try to redo the whole last letter in this letter. And honestly, why would I? It’s a whole new day over here. (Or a whole new second day, if we take the time difference into account.)
You can read the essay in its republished form with new links and images here.
And the announcement I sent that didn’t quite make it to you in one piece? We’ll go over it again when I get back. But the basics can be gleaned right here.
Last night, or the night before last depending on where you are, I was curled up in my economy seat, reading Careless People, a memoir by Sarah Wynn-Williams about her time inside Facebook. It reveals so much about the people and power that engineered our current fascist moment. They overwrote our need to connect to each other with terminal disconnection.
It’s the second time I’ve read the book. I marked it up while massaging my aching, aching legs. Almost everyone else was asleep. The cabin air was fully cured in passenger perspiration. Turbulence made the plane dip and shake. And I started to feel the kind of panic that disconnects me from the things I know about reality.
What was I doing up here, moving through the air? It seemed impossible the floor of the place was solid enough to keep me from falling into the sea. There was nothing to hold on to.
The baby sitting in front of me started to fuss. His mother pulled him onto her lap. It’s okay, you’re okay. His grandma, sitting across the aisle, reached out and touched his mother’s elbow. “Here, you give him to me, you rest.”
I watched the mother pass the baby across the aisle into the grandmother’s arms. He moved through the air, one woman holding him on each side. And I felt calmer. The floor felt more solid.
I guess we’ll all fall into the sea someday, but there is always something to hold on to.